


Twilight of Spring

by OutOfAutumn



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: !Smaurent!, Auguste is a Hoe, F/M, M/M, POV Auguste, Regent? What Regent?, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-25
Updated: 2017-11-02
Packaged: 2019-01-22 18:19:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12487944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OutOfAutumn/pseuds/OutOfAutumn
Summary: Auguste has just turned 16. Marriage prospects are flooding in from all sides of the kingdom, and his little brother is not happy about it.i.e. A slice-of-life fic about adolescent Auguste, because his character deserves some fleshing out.Alternative title: Golden Prince Auguste vs. Puberty





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing my last story made me realize how starved I am for Auguste-centric fics. It also made me want to explore his character a little more, because even though he is never physically in the Captive Prince books, Pacat somehow managed to make me love him.
> 
> There are a lot of fics that include Auguste, but few that include more information about him than is shared in the books. So here you are. I'm not sure what else I'm trying to accomplish, here.
> 
> I saw some recent tumblr posts about Auguste being a Hoe™. I agree with this assertion whole-heartedly. I also thought it would be hilarious to witness Golden Prince Auguste going through the hell that is puberty.
> 
> Oh, and about the Regent . . . What Regent? He isn't in this. I don't want him sliming up my happy story.
> 
> I will probably add at least another chapter to this. However, I set it up as a two-parter in case school gets so crazy that I cannot continue writing at a reasonable pace (and two parts is all I have [mostly] written). I’m trying to give each chapter a theme, but I might fail at that. Because I’m not sure what theme this has, if any.
> 
> The title is just my poetic attempt to say "late adolescence". Because unfortunately, everything must have a title, and I'm bad at that.
> 
> Enjoy!

“She is very ugly,” Laurent says.

“You’ve said that about all of them,” Auguste replies. 

This time, though, Laurent’s opinion may amount to more than the mere spite of a four-year-old. Auguste tilts his head to the right. He tilts it to the left.  No matter from what angle he looks at the portrait, there is no way to deny the truth: the woman depicted within the gilded frame  _ is  _ ugly, apparently so much so that not even a painter could flatter her. 

She is Sigrid, Princess of Patras, the eldest daughter of King Torgeir. Hers is the fifth portrait to arrive in a month. The first of the portraits arrived the day before Auguste’s sixteenth birthday, and this will certainly not be the last. They are technically intended for Auguste’s father, King Aleron, because the selection of his son’s bride is ultimately his decision. Yet Father values Auguste’s opinion. Auguste is grateful for that, but the collection of painted princesses in his presence chamber is becoming rather unnerving. 

“Her nose is huge,” Laurent remarks.

Auguste tilts his head to the right again. “It’s certainly . . . aquiline. In some cultures, that’s considered beautiful.” 

“Her ears stick out.”

“Perhaps. But if she wears her hair down, it will hardly be noticeable.” 

Laurent looks up at Auguste. He has to crane his neck almost all the way back to do so, a consequence of a recent growth spurt that left Auguste almost half a foot taller than he was a year ago.  Laurent’s eyes are narrowed as he asks, “You like her, don’t you?” 

Auguste can’t help but smile. Laurent has reacted this way to all five of the portraits, but it will never stop being amusing. There is something surreal about having this type of conversation with a four-year-old. 

“I can’t say whether I like her or not,” Auguste says. “It’s impossible to judge on the basis of a portrait.” 

“Then why are you defending her?”

“It’s always important to give people a chance.” 

“You don't need to give her one. You have plenty of women who like you here, in Arles. Much prettier women. Like the one who met you in the hedge maze the other night.”

A gale of high-pitched, nervous laughter bursts out of Auguste’s chest. He kneels next to Laurent, looking side to side, making sure they’re still alone in his chambers. Of course they are. Auguste may only be sixteen years old, but he is still Crown Prince of Vere, and a request for privacy is not typically ignored. 

“You’re supposed to keep quiet about that, remember?” He whispers behind a hand. 

Laurent’s eyes, rounder and bluer than Auguste’s own, bulge. He claps a hand over his mouth. “I'm sorry!”

Auguste laughs and rumples Laurent’s hair. “It’s all right. No harm done.” 

“I'm only trying to understand!”

“Ah, but you are a very smart boy,” Auguste says. “I think you  _ do  _ understand. You just don’t like Princess Sigrid because you think Father is going to make me marry her."

Laurent flushes and looks away, staring at some invisible thing on the carpet. “I don’t see why you should have to get married at all. The Empress of Vask is not married. Nor is King Theomedes of Akielos.” 

King Theomedes is not married because his wife died while birthing their heir. The Empress of Vask is not married because she chose not to marry, and instead possesses a harem of extremely buff, virile men. These are crude facts Auguste does not want to trouble his little brother with, though it would not surprise him if Laurent already knows. He is not the average four year old. In fact, he's already devouring multi-chapter books and solving riddles that Auguste could not grasp until he was twice Laurent’s age. 

Laurent’s intelligence is a gift, and Auguste boasts about it to anyone who will listen: his tutors, his friends, even his lovers. But it is a gift that does not come without its share of hazards. 

Laurent is smart enough to know that marriage will change things. Laurent is smart enough to know that marriage could bring an end to their long hours wandering in the hedge maze, their vacations to Acquitart, their lazy afternoon rides. 

“I have to produce heirs,” Auguste says, lowering himself into a sit. He pulls Laurent down into his lap, ignoring the little grunt of protest. “It is my duty to do so.”

Laurent’s response is a stiff, “I know that.” But he folds into Auguste’s arms with overt lassitude. 

“Just because I’m getting married does not mean we can’t still play together. Some things will change, but you will always be my little brother. Who else will play hide and seek with me, and beat me in races?”

Laurent does not smile, laugh, or boast. It’s more telling than tears could ever be. 

Auguste sighs. His clothes suddenly feel twice as heavy. 

“You can rest easy,” he says. “I have only just turned sixteen, and Father has many other offers to consider. He will take his time to ensure he makes the best match for Vere." 

“That will take a long time, right?”

Auguste opens his mouth.  _ Of course it will,  _ he starts to say, but the words won’t leave his lips. He wants to say them. He wants to say anything that will comfort his little brother, but he cannot be sure of his father’s intentions, and he will not lie to Laurent. 

“You’ll probably have to put up with me for a while yet,” Auguste says instead, tapping Laurent on the nose. When Laurent swipes at his hand, Auguste gives him a noogie, the scalp-scraping,  brain-rattling type that always makes him squeal. 

When Laurent finally manages to twist out from underneath Auguste’s hand, his hair is standing on end, and there’s a fuzzy knot in the center of his head. His pale brows are knitted into a frown. Yet underneath it is a tiny smile, a treasure unearthed by Auguste’s teasing. 

“You’re so annoying!” Laurent exclaims, smoothing his hair back down. 

“But you love me anyway,” Auguste says, hugging him close. Laurent’s newly-mussed hair smells of lavender and soap. 

At first, Laurent remains rigid, still pretending at peeved. It only lasts a few seconds before he leans into Auguste’s embrace, snuggling into the ruched silk at his chest. 

“I do,” he says quietly.  
  


******

2 Weeks Later

******  
  


Auguste stands in his privy chamber before a full-length mirror, adjusting and readjusting his circlet. It is supposed make him look refined and princely, but no matter which way he tilts it, it only seems to accomplish one thing: drawing attention to the crop of fresh blemishes on his forehead. 

_ Of course  _ he has a breakout today _ ,  _ because there is a banquet tonight, and blemishes only ever appear when he has important appearances to make.

He can’t help flashing a bitter glare toward Princess Sigrid’s portrait. It has been joined by three new ones in the two weeks since its arrival, but it is still distinctive, if only for the hooked nose and big ears. 

She is the reason for the Patran delegation that is coming to the palace today. They come under the guise of crafting a trade agreement, but even the palace fool can guess their true objective. If trade was their true aim, Princess Sigrid would not be with them. If trade was their true aim, they would not have come with two wagons full of rubies and priceless artifacts, collectively valuable enough to make a respectable dowry. 

The arrival will be treated with little fanfare out of respect for Auguste’s mother, who is sick again.  Nevertheless, Auguste is expected to wear his typical public regalia to the small banquet tonight: blue jacket, gold sash, and this godforsaken, sapphire-encrusted circlet. 

He fidgets with it for a while longer before giving it up as a lost cause and, instead, turning to his hair. He fluffs the front until it mostly covers his forehead. He ties the rest into a short braid that he tosses over his shoulder, letting the end dangle just over his collarbone. Father will certainly comment on it. Father  _ always  _ comments on his hair, which he considers “too long”. For the most part, Auguste agrees with him. After all, most Veretian men wear their hair short, and it will be nothing but an obstacle in any serious fight. 

But sometimes, especially on days like this, Auguste feels like his hair is the only part of himself he truly  _ owns _ . Every other part of him belongs to the people. He must keep his body strong to defend them. His limbs nimble to wield a sword for them. His mind sharp to make decisions for them. 

His chamber doors burst open as he is arranging his sash. He starts, causing him to fumble the starburst-shaped brooch meant to pin the sash to his shoulder. 

It skitters across the floor, rolls, and stops against a pair of shiny black boots. Auguste follows them up to a pair of burgundy trousers, to a burgundy waistcoat crisscrossed with dark green laces, to a round, black-bearded face. 

The beard isn’t familiar, but the face underneath is. Any irritation from the intrusion is forestalled at the sight of his best friend. Auguste is suddenly seconds away from squealing like a little boy. 

“I’m sorry, I thought I requested privacy?” Auguste asks instead, trying to sound stern. An unstoppable smile breaks his facade. 

“My apologies, your Highness,” Vale says, extending a heel and folding over it into an unnecessarily elaborate bow. “Will you be sending me to the stocks?”

Auguste speaks as he crosses the room. “I should, you scoundrel. When you said you had to travel to the border, you didn't tell me you'd be gone for a year!”

He crushes Vale into an embrace before he can make a comeback, which is impressive. More impressive still is the fact that Auguste somehow manages not to cry. He has yearned for this day since the second Vale left. He'd wanted to go with him to Delfeur, had begged his father to let him accompany Vale to the military drills at the border. For once, King Aleron had rebuffed the idea of Auguste departing for military training. Vale’s year-long absence is probably why. It isn't seemly for the Crown Prince to be gone for so long when there is still so much to learn. And if Auguste is being honest with himself, he wouldn't have wanted to be away from Laurent for so long, anyway. 

“I meant to make it back in time for your birthday,” Vale says. 

“Who cares? I'll have another one next year.” 

“Well I won't  _ make _ it to next year if you don't stop squeezing me so tightly.” 

Auguste squeezes him for a few more seconds, harder, before releasing him. 

Vale steps back and looks Auguste up and down. “You've grown.” 

Auguste laughs. “You haven't.” Vale is still the same stocky, five-foot-nothing he was a year ago. 

“Perhaps not in any obvious way.” Vale bends to pick up the starburst pin. He dusts it off before pressing it into Auguste’s open palm. “But you wouldn’t believe what I’ve been through.”

Auguste’s pulse kicks up until he can hear it knocking in his ears. “Was it the Akielons?” He’s heard rumors of this: rogue bands of Akielon bandits exploiting the tentative peace at the border. Raids. Pillaging. 

“Well, I guess you could say it was them. They fuck like wild animals, men and women alike.” 

It is so incredibly opposite of what Auguste expected to hear that his mind goes blank. He can only stare, his mouth half open.

That doesn't stop Vale. “They are quite virile, and incredibly inventive. Trust me, a rut with one of them is more exhausting than the worst military drill you can imagine. But the satisfaction is beyond compare. Beyond anything you can find in Vere.” 

“You spent a year in Delfeur, fucking?” 

“When we weren’t doing drills, yes,” Vale says casually. “What else is to be done there?” 

Auguste shrugs a shoulder. “Fair point.” Because military drills in Delfeur mean staying at Marlas, which is among the most unremarkable of the Veretian forts. Since childhood, he’s had a fantasy that one of his first acts as King will be to build a new palace there: a palace with a hedge maze and a decent training yard and a huge library, just for Laurent. 

“And what of you?” Vale asks, slapping Auguste’s shoulder. “Surely you've been getting your share of pokes in.”

“Not really.” It comes out too fast, sounding like what it is: a lie. A self-preservation instinct. 

“A dashing fellow like you? And a prince no less?” Vale elbows him in the ribs. “Come on. Spill.” 

The urge to tell him the truth burns in Auguste’s chest. There is his favorite, Lady Babette, whom Laurent knows as “the woman in the hedge maze”. There is Lady Collette, who dresses like a chambermaid to smuggle herself into his rooms. There is Countess Moulin, a widow who is a little too old for his tastes but makes up for it through her experience in bed. All women of high birth, who have just as much to lose as Auguste does by revealing their trysts. 

“Shy?” Vale asks, elbowing him again. “I’m sure you’ve at least procured a pet.” 

Auguste manages a tight smile, but says nothing. He’s only been old enough to retain a pet for a piddly three weeks, and even so, his three lovers leave very little need for one. Vale is no stable boy, but of low enough birth that his reputation will not be irrevocably tarnished if he were to father a bastard. He has the freedom to speak of these things. He cannot conceive of all there is to lose. 

Auguste’s stomach sinks. He never thought there'd be a time when he could not tell his best friend everything.

“I suppose we shouldn’t be speaking of this around your tiny blonde shadow, anyway,” Vale says, looking around. He suddenly looks terribly confused, as if all the furniture has been mysteriously rearranged.  “Wait, where is he?” 

Auguste sighs, feeling as though he’s just narrowly dodged an attack. He turns back to the mirror. “His nursemaid fetched him about an hour ago to prepare him for the banquet. He was not pleased. He was in the middle of reading me a treatise on flora of the Northern Forests.” 

Vale gives a loud, inauthentic yawn. “Well that sounds interesting.” 

“Actually, it was. Did you know that over a thousand species of flower have been discovered there? The abundance of elderly animals in the forest implies that some of the flowers might have healing properties.” 

Vale’s response is a short grunt that does not disguise his disinterest. Auguste watches Vale’s stout, rotund form in the mirror behind him as he crosses the room, his bootheels scraping the floor. He stops in front of the line of princess portraits stacked around the fireplace. For a minute or so he studies them, walking from one to the next, his arms crossed behind his back. 

“Marriage prospects?” He asks. 

“Their fathers think so.”

“You've got quite the collection.”

“To hear Laurent describe them, they are all utterly grotesque, without redeeming qualities, and not worthy of me.” 

Vale’s laughter is so loud that it echoes off the vaulted ceiling. It’s the type of laughter that begs to be harmonized: soaring, infectious. Auguste is relieved to find that he is able to laugh, too, that it makes his stomach feel a little lighter. That it makes the reflection in the mirror look more like himself. 

“Nobody will be worthy of you, as far as he’s concerned,” Vale says. 

“True.” 

“But I must say I disagree with him about Princess Henrietta of Kempt. She's quite a dish.” 

Auguste has to turn around and look at the portrait his friend is indicating, because he quite frankly does not remember which one Princess Henrietta of Kempt is. The princess in the portrait is slender and fair, with dark blonde hair and blue-grey eyes that are remarkably similar to Auguste’s own. She is almost certainly a relative of his mother. Perhaps a cousin. 

“It’d feel weird to marry her,” Auguste says, wrinkling his nose. “She looks too much like my mother.” 

Vale shrugs. “Well, with all due respect to Her Majesty . . .”

He doesn't finish the comment, but he doesn't have to. The implication is clear enough. It is an insensitive remark, considering the fact that Auguste’s mother is currently bedridden. It is also highly disrespectful, considering the fact that Auguste’s mother is the Queen. 

There was a time when this sort of comment was commonplace between the two of them. Auguste would have laughed, and shoved his shoulder, and called him a pervert or a rogue. Vale would have shoved him back and told him not to throw stones in a glass house. The exchange of minor insults would have led to a playful skirmish in the training arena, where they would have spent the remainder of the afternoon swinging swords and throwing one another in the dirt. 

But something is different now. Now, they are standing in uncomfortable silence, and the past seems impossible. Auguste can't put his finger on  _ why.  _

The conflict must be showing on his face, because he sees Vale go still in the mirror behind him. 

“Auguste,” he says. “Have I offended you?” 

“No.” Offended is not the right word. Auguste does not know what the right word is. 

“If I have spoken too casually up to this point, please forgive me, I didn't mean to-" 

Auguste’s mouth is already open to tell him not to worry about it, when Vale drops to a knee. Auguste’s breath is forced from his chest. His best friend hasn't taken a knee for him in eleven years, not since the very first day they met, a prince and an army captain's son forced to play together while their fathers discussed tactics. It has never been necessary. 

He has to turn around and face Vale to even convince himself it's happening. He wants to move forward, to take him by the elbow and yank him up, but he is petrified. 

“Vale, what are you doing?” His voice cracks, as it is wont to do these days. “Get off your knee.” 

Vale rises instantly, with regimented efficiency: A soldier’s response to an order. He does not quite meet Auguste’s eye. Instead he looks at his chest, at the starburst brooch that flashes in the mid afternoon sun pouring in through the loggia. 

_ One year. _ Apparently, Auguste is not the only one who senses things have changed. 

“Is this what they're teaching soldiers now?” Auguste asks. “That Prince Auguste cannot take a joke?” 

“I . . . was advised that, now that we are not boys anymore, certain aspects of our relationship may be perceived as unprofessional. That I am your soldier first, and your friend second." 

Unpleasant heat flocks into Auguste’s belly. “Advised by who? Your father?” 

Vale does not respond, which is as good as a confirmation. 

It breaks Auguste’s trance. He is finally able to walk forward and lay a hand on Vale’s shoulder, which is trembling a little. It makes the heat in Auguste’s stomach boil up into his face, which must be turning a rather deep shade of red. It's lucky he doesn't get angry often. His fair skin does not hide it well. 

“Your father doesn't know me as you do,” Auguste says. “I’m still the same person I was before you left. Nothing has changed between us.”  _ At least, I don't want to believe it has.  _

Vale swallows. “Father said the admonition came straight from King Aleron.” 

The situation shuffles and rearranges itself in Auguste’s mind. “ _ What?” _

“His Majesty desires for us to have a more . . . appropriate relationship.” 

The heat in Auguste’s face spreads to his ears. He wants to feel betrayed, but of course he should have saw this coming. He remembers Father calling him into his privy chamber the night after his birthday celebration. He remembers talking to him in front of the fireplace with two goblets and a pitcher of wine on the table between them. The details of the conference are shrouded in an alcohol haze, but Auguste remembers the gist of it. Between sips, they spoke of manhood. Marriage. Kingship. Of the changes that would happen from here on out, especially within the next five years, as Auguste approaches the age of majority. 

At the time, Auguste had been naive enough - and tipsy enough - to believe Father was referring to the obvious changes: pimples, growth spurts, a voice that cracks at inconvenient moments.

Auguste restrains this introspection to one sentence: “I will discuss this with Father after the banquet tonight.” 

Vale stands up a little straighter. “You won’t tell him it’s because of me, will you?” 

“Of course not. Not unless you don't stop acting like a kicked puppy.” 

A smile sprouts on Vale’s face, quick, as though he's been holding it at bay all along. It does not quite engage his dimples, or crinkle the skin at the outer corners of his eyes. 

“I really am sorry, though,” he says. “About Her Majesty. I heard about her illness this morning, but I was so excited to see you that I forgot, and I didn't think about-”

“I know,” says Auguste. “It’s all right.” And then, because he can sense another awkward silence looming ahead: “You can make it up to me by helping me drink myself into a stupor tonight. I have a lot to get off my mind.” 

As always, Vale automatically knows what’s on Auguste’s mind: at least that hasn't changed. “Do you think His Majesty is planning to betroth you to Princess Sigrid? Is that why he invited the Patrans here on such short notice?” 

“I don’t think he invited them at all, actually. I think this is the Patrans trying to stick their foot in the door. We will wine and dine them, as is customary with any delegation, and then Father will send them and their dowry back to the foothills.”

“Good,” says Vale. And then, in a much quieter, slower tone of voice: “Does this mean we can still talk about . . .” He gives a subtle but vulgar thrust of his hips that makes his meaning clear. 

Auguste still does not want to talk about it. It still feels dangerous, like dipping one’s toe in a lake that is rumored to house piranhas.  But more than that, he doesn't want that kicked-puppy look to cross Vale’s face again.  _ Ever  _ again. 

“Of course,” Auguste says, taking his best friend’s shoulder and steering him toward the bronze doors. “On our way to the Great Hall, let me tell you about Lady Babette.” 

 

******

 

Auguste and his father greet the Patrans on the palace steps, as is customary. 

The delegation, however, is far from customary. Only five Patran men make their way onto the dais to shake hands with he and his father; the rest of the party are either soldiers or servants, sent only to maintain the comfort of their yellow-liveried Lords. 

Princess Sigrid is escorted by her uncle, Prince Torveld, who is only about five years older than the princess herself. He is dark-haired with blue eyes that twinkle in the fading sun: ruggedly handsome, enough so to earn Auguste’s admiration, which is not easily won by men. 

His attractiveness is a disadvantage to Sigrid. She is, as predicted by her portrait, a homely girl, and standing next to her dashing uncle creates an unflattering contrast. She is wearing a yellow dress with a hoop skirt so large that it is impossible to come closer than four feet to her. 

On seeing Auguste, she stops dead in her tracks, her cheeks flushing to rich russet. Her uncle gently urges her forward and mutters something into her ear. He’s probably telling her that gaping at a Crown Prince is not respectful, but Auguste does not mind. Many women have been reacting this way around him lately. 

As she grows closer, he can see that she is trembling. His heart swells with pity, but before he can say anything to comfort her, she sweeps into a dramatic curtsy before him. 

“Princess Sigrid of Patras, my Lord,” she says, in a tiny, squeak-of-a-voice that trembles. “It is an honor to be received in your court.” 

It is a breach of etiquette to greet Auguste before the King. Judging by Torveld’s violent flinch, he is well aware of this. Auguste quickly glances at his father, but the King does not seem offended. In fact, he looks almost amused, a tiny smile emerging from underneath his thick red beard. 

“How do you do?” Auguste asks, reaching across the feet of skirt to clasp Sigrid’s hand. It’s so sweaty that her fingers nearly slip from his grasp.   


“I’m nervous,” she says. “My stomach hurts.” 

He was expecting some variation of the standard response:  _ fine, thank you.  _ He wasn’t expecting blunt honesty. He laughs out loud, and it echoes in the nearly-empty courtyard, sending a flock of pigeons wheeling from the battlements and into the sky. 

He claps his free hand over his mouth, but the damage is already done. He can feel Father’s glower on his skin like heat from a hearth. 

Sigrid blushes and looks at her uncle, who has his fists bunched into his tunic as though restraining an impulse to throttle her. The sparkle has left his eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” Sigrid says quietly, looking at the ground. 

Auguste squeezes her fingers. She looks up again, her deep-set brown eyes rimmed with water. 

“No reason to be sorry,” he says. Judging by Father’s glare, he cannot say the same for himself. “Welcome to Vere.” 

******

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Irrelevant sidenote: I imagine Prince Torveld looking like Riker from Star Trek: Next Gen. I have since the very moment I read Captive Prince. I can’t remember if Pacat ever mentions the color of his eyes in CP, and I was too lazy to look it up. So he has blue eyes here, a la Riker. So there’s that. 
> 
> Also, I tried to make Auguste faithful to the books in the sense that he “prefers women”. But I cannot believe that he is totally uninterested in men, given the traditions of his country. So he thinks Torveld’s hot. Who wouldn’t, if he looks like Riker?
> 
> Part 2 will probably be up next week. If I get a chance to edit it. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

The Great Hall is a gaping maw of gilt, from the crown molding to the furniture to the chandeliers that sway above. The effect is amplified by the late afternoon sun that blasts in through the high, vaulted windows. It reflects off of everything, so that the hall is shrouded in an ethereal haze of golden light.

Normally the gilt in the room is overshadowed only by an assortment of painted, gaudy pets, who are enterprising enough to have earned their place at the high table beside their masters. They have been banished this evening, and it’s just as well. Ever since Auguste became old enough to select one, many have been vying for his attention, and it’s annoying to say the least.

Luckily, only the Council and a few highly-regarded courtiers sit at the high table tonight, alongside Auguste, his Father, and the Patran guests. A few smaller, lower tables surround the main one, and it is at one of these that Vale sits, meeting Auguste’s eye every now and then to flash a conspiratorial smile.

Auguste returns the smiles, but his stomach flutters each time. Maybe it’s because Lady Babette is sitting at that very same table, positioned a few seats down from Vale next to her weak-chinned fiance.

Servants weave in and out of the crowd, bearing gilded trays stacked with goblets and hors d'oeuvres. Looking down on all of this is a gigantic portrait on the far wall. It depicts the royal family as they appeared almost five years ago, just after Laurent’s birth, when the Queen’s health was at the onset of its slow decline.

Auguste looks at the chair across from him. It is normally occupied by his mother, but tonight, it is empty.

It makes the veal taste especially bland.

“My Lord,” says a squeaky voice directly to his right.

Auguste turns. Sigrid is looking at him, her brow furrowed. Torveld, seated across from her, is visible from the corner of Auguste’s eye. He looks tense.

“You’ve hardly touched your supper,” Sigrid says.

At first Auguste can only blink at her. It’s literally the first time she’s spoken to him since they greeted each other on the steps. He looks down at his plate. It is virtually untouched. He forces himself to spear a cluster of green beans onto his fork.

“Nothing’s the matter,” he says. “I’m simply appreciating this lovely evening.” And then, as the rest of her words sink in: “And please, call me by my given name.”

“As you wish,” she says. And then, looking back to her plate with a coquettish bat of her lashes, “Auguste.”

She takes her own forkful of green beans. Auguste forces himself to chew and swallow, washing it down with deep draughts of wine. He’s aware of his Father to his left, sitting at the head of the table as usual. He's quiet: _too quiet_. Almost certainly listening.

It makes Auguste think of his conversation with Vale mere hours ago: _His Majesty desires for us to have a more appropriate relationship_. The back of his neck starts to feel hot.

“What about you?” he asks Sigrid, if only to stall this poisonous train of thought. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

“I am,” she says. “It’s lovely here. Everything is decorated so beautifully. And your violinist is splendid.”

She nods toward the hunched old man in the corner, who is finishing a tender rendition of _The King’s Waltz_.

“Yes,” Auguste says. “That’s Jacques. He’s played for my father his entire reign. And he'll play for mine too, if I can help it.”

“It really soothes my nerves,” Sigrid says. And then blanches, as though she's said something untoward. She looks up at her uncle, clearly anticipating a scowl. Torveld is doing no such thing. He is smiling warmly, conversing with Councillor Herode.

“There's no shame in being nervous,” Auguste says.

Sigrid wipes her palms on her napkin and smiles.

“When I'm feeling nervous or upset, I always find my little brother,” Auguste says. “He can amuse me in even the most desperate of situations.”

“Your little brother?” Sigrid asks, looking around.

“He’s still too little to dine at the high table.” Auguste leans back in his chair and points to the distant corner of the room. “He’s sitting just over there.”

Laurent is sitting at a low table with all the other young children, distinguished by a slender gold circlet across his brow. He is dressed in a velvet-sleeved jacket and little buckled shoes: the latest fashion for small boys. He is sitting silently, resting one plump cheek on a hand. Every so often, between beleaguered bites of veal, he stops to pull at his neckerchief and glare at his nursemaid, who is in a giggling gaggle with a few other serving women.

“He’s adorable!” Sigrid gushes.

“Yes,” says Auguste, beaming. “And smart as a whip. He loves to read, do arithmetic, and solve puzzles. I daresay he speaks Vaskian better than I do.”

“He looks troubled.”

“He doesn't like it when we have to dine separately,” Auguste says. He scoots back up in his chair, meaning to continue their conversation. But now that she’s said it, he can’t get it out of his mind: _He looks troubled_.

Laurent really doesn’t like dining without Auguste. But maybe that’s not what ails him. Maybe it’s the Princess sitting at Auguste’s right, in Laurent’s usual spot.

Maybe it’s the empty chair across from Auguste.

“He looks like he's done with his meal,” says Auguste, wiping his hands and throwing his napkin onto his plate. “I'll go get him and introduce him to you.”

He rises to his feet without thinking. The legs of his chair squeal across the floor, severing the muted drone of conversation. It's as though the whole table is disrupted by this single act. A flock of faces swing toward him.

Including that of his father.

Auguste freezes. There’s a frenzied moment where he can only stare at Father, caught in the watery blue gaze. Father doesn’t look angry or even disturbed.

He doesn’t look pleased, either.

Auguste clears his throat. “Please excuse me for a moment.” He should have said it before standing up in the first place.

Father takes a bite of veal, then a sip of wine, but says nothing. Auguste’s heart beats faster, until he feels it might burst out of his chest and plop into the center of the table. Everyone is staring. It’s so quiet that Jacques’s violin seems to echo.

Auguste gestures to Laurent, who is also staring at him. “It will only take a second, I'm just going to-"

“Sit down.” Father does not raise his voice, but he does not have to. It's an order.

Auguste plunks back into the chair, looking down into his lap to keep from looking at his table mates. His cheeks are burning. This time, it cannot be entirely attributed to anger.  

Sigrid leans slightly toward him. “I look forward to meeting him later,” she whispers.

Auguste flashes her a feeble smile and drains his goblet.

******

As luck would have it, it’s not very much longer until Sigrid does get to meet Laurent.

There is no dancing tonight, but there’s a social hour after dessert. Auguste and his father stand side-by-side as guests approach them in a receiving line.

Between conversations, Auguste flickers his eyes around the room, searching for Laurent. He is nowhere to be found. A glance at the grandfather clock confirms it to be just past eight o'clock: Laurent’s bedtime. Knowing Laurent has probably gone to bed upset makes it hard to keep smiling.

The wine helps. He can feel it work through him like an elixir, unwinding his nerves.

After a while Auguste is accidentally - or not so accidentally - left standing in a corner with Princess Sigrid. He can sense prying eyes on them from all around, but they are isolated enough to affect privacy if they pitch their voices low. This is as good as proof that Father does not intend to pursue a marriage. He’s been giving Auguste more and more responsibility lately, but he would never give up this much control if he actually meant to forge an alliance.

It’s obvious why. Auguste has always found it easy talk to people: a benefit of a life spent in the public eye. Sigrid clearly has no such gift. She is awkward and dodgy, scarcely making eye contact with anyone except for Auguste or her uncle. She answers Auguste’s questions, but little else, leaving weighty silences behind every exchange.

“I am uncomfortable in situations like this,” she says, when Auguste asks her why she looks so peaked.

Auguste looks around. “At banquets?”

“Yes. In Bazal, Father often allows me to skip such occasions. He knows what havoc it wreaks on my nerves.”

Auguste has half a mind to tell her that this is not even half of the crowd at a typical Veretian social affair. Since she will likely never return to Vere after this, he decides there’s no point.

“You have four little sisters, do you not?” he asks instead.

“Yes.” She rubs at goosebumps on her upper arms. “Why do you ask?”

_Because if your father understood anything about Veretian culture, he would have sent one of them instead._

Instead he says, “I cannot imagine having that many Laurents running around. How could I possibly make the time to play with each of them? It'd be more work than running a kingdom.”

She smiles, but says nothing. Weighted silence drops between them.

Auguste has to fight to keep from gazing longingly at Vale across the room, who is entertaining a group of courtiers with a story that provokes raucous laughter. Lady Babette is among this crowd, her auburn curls piled atop her head to reveal her slender white neck. Her laughter swells above the rest of the cacophony. It is throaty, but not abrasive; it is like the rasp of silk over skin, like a warm rivulet of water down the center of the spine.

He loves it when she laughs like this. When they’re alone together, it feels like an honor to provoke it, a triumph exceeding even the most powerful of orgasms.

A familiar heat flocks into his lower belly. He looks down.

His pants are a little too tight for this train of thought.

Auguste gropes through his head for something to say to Sigrid- _anything_ to forestall what is happening inside his body - when a familiar voice pierces the omnipotent babble of the crowd.

“Auguste! Auguste!”

Auguste looks over and sees Laurent coming toward them, weaving between the legs of chatting courtiers.

“Laurent?” Auguste hunkers down, just in time for Laurent to come barrelling into his arms. Laurent hugs him tightly around the neck, so Auguste’s voice sounds a little hoarse as he asks, “Shouldn’t you be getting ready for bed about now?”

“Yes, but -”

“My apologies, Your Highness,” says a breathless female voice.

Auguste looks up to see Laurent’s nursemaid, panting and wiping sweat from her brow. Her skirts are rumpled and tendrils of curly hair are sticking out from underneath her cap.

She dips into a low curtsy. “I meant to prepare him for bed, but he ran away. Please allow me.”

She reaches for Laurent’s hand. Laurent tightens his grip around Auguste’s neck until it becomes difficult to breathe. Auguste puts a hand on his little brother’s back to comfort him, and can feel his heartbeat, a frantic rattle against his ribcage.

“What's the matter?” he murmurs into Laurent’s ear.

Laurent only shakes his head.

“It’s all right,” Auguste says to the nursemaid, trying to sound apologetic. “I’ll send him your way in a few minutes.”

The nursemaid flashes a worried glance at the King, who is currently in deep, animated conversation with Torveld.

Auguste smiles at her. “I promise.”

She still looks a little wary, but apparently recognizes the words for the dismissal they are. “Thank you, Your Highness.” She curtsies and moves away.

As soon as her footsteps are gone, Laurent pulls his face out of Auguste’s neck. His eyes flicker briefly over Auguste’s shoulder - at Sigrid- before resting back on Auguste.

“Why are you causing such difficulty for poor Marie?” Auguste asks, smoothing Laurent’s hair out of his face. “It isn't kind to make her chase you through the palace.”

“She did not have to follow me.”

Auguste has to curl his lips together to keep from smiling; it’s a problem he often has when trying to chastise Laurent. “You know Father will be cross if he sees you here.”

“I have a right to meet the Princess, too.”

Auguste blinks. In the two weeks since her portrait arrived, Laurent has shown no further interest in Sigrid, and has pointedly changed the subject anytime Auguste mentioned her impending arrival.

It's probably some elaborate ploy to stay up past his bedtime. Nevertheless, what harm can it do?

“I suppose you’re right,” Auguste says, giving him a conspiratorial wink. The side of Laurent’s mouth quirks up.

Auguste stands up and takes Laurent’s shoulders, moving him to stand between himself and Princess Sigrid.

“This is my little brother, Laurent,” Auguste says, nudging Laurent forward.

The misery on Sigrid’s face melts the instant she looks at Laurent. It's clear that, no matter how awkwardly she interacts with other adults, she is thrilled to see him. Having four smaller siblings probably has something to do with it.

“Aah, the little Prince,” Sigrid says. She sweeps her skirts aside and bobs a curtsey, the appropriate obeisance.  “Pleased to meet you.”

Silence. Laurent remains still, his back ramrod straight, his eyes raking the Princess up and down. Auguste nudges him in the back of the heel with the toe of his boot.

Laurent sighs. Then he crosses his arms behind his back, extends a heel, and bows at the waist.

“The pleasure is all mine,”  he says, every word flat, inflectionless, and rehearsed.

Sigrid giggles behind the press of a hand. “He is precious.”

Auguste inflates his chest. “Thank you.”  He is the one who taught Laurent that bow. He is the one who taught Laurent those words. He is the one who selected Laurent’s outfit, which Laurent hates, but wears anyway just because Auguste asked him to. “She just complimented you, Laurent. What do you say?”

Laurent squints at Sigrid. “You don’t look very much like your portrait.”

It takes a moment for those words to sink in. When they do, all of the blood in Auguste’s head suddenly drops into his feet. He grabs at Laurent’s shoulder, but before he can pull him back -

“I don’t?” Sigrid asks, kneeling down to Laurent’s level. She is smiling so big that it shows her teeth, which are tiny, square, and spaced too far apart.

“No,” says Laurent. “At first, I thought you hired a poor painter. But now I can see that he did an excellent job of flattering you. Your nose is much bigger in real life.”

Auguste finally manages to grab Laurent’s shoulder. He pulls him back toward him, kneeling next to him and whispering into his ear, harshly, _“Laurent!”_

But the damage is already done. Sigrid’s face falls. “What?”

A blade of nervous laughter rips from Auguste’s chest.  “Nothing!” He wraps an arm around Laurent as though to say, _see how nice and sweet he is? He would never say such a thing_. “He's just babbling. It's past his bedtime. I'm sure you know how kids can be when they're tired.”

Laurent’s brow crinkles, the expression he gets when trying to solve a difficult riddle. “Why are you lying?”

Auguste blinks at him, gaping, feeling very lightheaded. “Laurent-"

“You always tell me how important it is to be honest,” Laurent says. He turns back to Princess Sigrid. “What I actually said was-"

He repeats himself. Auguste does not hear it, because the rush of blood through his head is too loud, and it suddenly feels as though the marble floor beneath him is made of nothing but mist.

Sigrid buries her face in her hands.

Auguste rises to his feet and touches her shoulder.  “Come, now, don't-”

Sigrid starts crying. They are great, honking sobs that drill through the tender whine of the violin and the drone of conversation. Everyone starts staring. Everyone, including Prince Torveld, who looks up from his intense conversation with the Council.

Everyone, including Father.

Sigrid steps out from underneath Auguste’s trembling hand. She heads for the doors, her skirt bobbing along with her frenzied steps.

Auguste grabs at her arm. “Please, wait-"

Despite the girth of her skirt, she moves very quickly, and is gone before he can say another word. Her sobs echo down the hall. The acoustics of the Great Hall serve as an amplifier, so the sound lingers in the air, like the ghastly dirge of an organ.

Torveld is looking at Auguste, horrified. Father’s face is turning reddish-purple.

Auguste grabs a goblet of wine from a passing servant’s tray. He swallows it so fast he doesn't even taste it.

******

Sigrid’s exit effectively ends the banquet.

Laurent is promptly snatched up by his nursemaid, on the outraged orders of the King. Auguste’s attempts to intervene on his little brother’s behalf are swept aside, and he too is ordered to his chambers. Every eye in the room burns on him as he exits. The acoustics betray him yet again, making his footsteps sound as loud as a blacksmith’s hammer. A kindly servant offers him a goblet of wine on his way out. Auguste smiles and takes the entire tray.

He drains all three goblets on the tray within two hours. He is in his presence chamber, sprawled on the reclining couch and watching the patterns on the ceiling tiles spin, when a servant knocks on the door.

“The King wishes to have a word with you,” the servant says. He sounds almost apologetic.

Auguste’s stomach curdles. He’s known all night it would eventually come to this, but he’d thought Father would wait until tomorrow, when Auguste has had a chance to sleep off the wine. The world is spinning and his stomach feels like a stone.

King Aleron is in his presence chamber, sitting in a velvet-backed chair before the fireplace. Laurent is standing in front of him. He is small for his age, but looks smaller still next to their father, who is swaddled in an ermine robe. Laurent is in his night gown and slippers, and is rubbing his eyes with two balled fists. It is at least two hours past his bedtime.

The King is gently murmuring something to Laurent. Their posture gives an innocent impression: that of a doting father telling his son a bedtime story. Auguste knows better. Aleron is more likely interrogating Laurent about what happened in the ballroom. Or asking him if he’s enjoying the swordsmanship lessons that Auguste knows he hates.

“My Lord Father,” Auguste says, going to one knee. He smothers a wine-flavored belch.

“Auguste. You may rise.” Auguste does, but his balance is unsteady and he staggers a few steps. When Auguste tries to disguise this, Father holds up a hand and says, “Don't bother: Herode tells me you left quite a trail of empty goblets in your wake tonight.”

Auguste’s mouth twists. _Good old Herode_. “I apologize, I was not aware you wished to-”

“No reason to apologize. You’ll learn your lesson well enough tomorrow morning.”

_Tell me about it._ The throb behind his eyes is growing steadily worse.

“Auguste,” Laurent says sleepily, stumbling a few steps forward until he bumps into Auguste’s legs. He leans against them, yawning and furiously rubbing his eyes.

“You're up very late, little one,” Auguste says, hoisting Laurent up onto his hip. Normally, Laurent resists being picked up, believing himself too old. Tonight he only yawns and tucks his face into Auguste’s shoulder.

Silence ensues, broken only by the crackle of the fire in the hearth. Auguste stands before his Father, gently rocking Laurent side to side, waiting to be invited to sit. Long seconds stretch by. No invitation comes. The loopy indifference of alcohol makes it no less agonizing.

It's a relief when Father finally speaks. “I would like for the both of you to explain what happened tonight.”

“Yes, of course,” Auguste says. “But may I take Laurent to bed, first? He will not be able to tell you anything in this condition.”

“He was the inciting factor. How can we get to the bottom of this without him here?”

“He was not the inciting factor. _I_ was.” He feels Laurent stir in his arms. Auguste puts his free hand on Laurent’s head to hold it there. “I've always told him to be honest. He was only doing as I taught him.”

“You taught him to insult our guests?”

“No, I-"

“You're always telling me how intelligent he is. Shouldn't he know that insulting a guest is absolutely out of line?”

“Well yes,” says Auguste. “He does, but-"

He hears himself sputtering, groping through darkness for a way to defend his brother. The wine was a terrible idea. Not only is he sweating, but his thoughts are like scattered sticks, and gathering them together is taking more time than Father will allow.

He thinks of the empty chair across from him at dinner. He thinks of Laurent sitting with the other children, pulling at his neckerchief, hardly eating.

“He’s only a little boy,” Auguste says. “A little boy with a chronically ill mother. This was the first time we've had a social event without her. And it was all because the Patrans decided to sweep in uninvited. How do you think that made him feel?”

Father scoffs. “Don't try to pretend like that matters. Don't try to act like he's ever needed her when he has you.”

Auguste flinches. It sounds exceptionally harsh, but it's true. Laurent has never been particularly attached to their mother, preferring Auguste’s affection instead. It probably has something to do with her frequent illness and vicarious absence from court.

Auguste sighs. Time to try a different angle. “Well, perhaps Princess Sigrid should learn not to take such offense to insults delivered by a child.”

“Are you saying you believe her feelings are not justified?”

“Yes,” Auguste blunders. But he can hear how wrong it sounds the instant it leaves his lips. “I mean-"

“So if you were a guest in a foreign palace, and a child approached you, uninvited, to comment on those ugly blemishes all over your forehead, you would think nothing of it? Am I following your logic correctly?”

It’s like an unexpected stab in the back. Auguste sucks in a breath and brings his free hand to his forehead: a subconscious act, one that reacquaints him with the painful cluster of bumps.

His reaction is apparently answer enough. Father settles back in his chair, his blue eyes blazing in the firelight. Oddly, he does not look angry. He looks satisfied, the way he does after watching Auguste execute a particularly demanding sword technique.

Suddenly, Auguste realizes what this is. Father has done this off and on his whole life, but the older Auguste gets, the more frequent it becomes.

This is no mere reprimand. Father is taking this simple social blight and turning it into a lesson: a diplomatic learning experience.

_Not now_ , Auguste wants to say. _Can’t you see that I’m drunk and Laurent is exhausted? Neither one of us will be able to make sense of this tomorrow._

He’s not too drunk to know that saying this would be a dangerous breach of respect. But the insult to his complexion does make him a little bolder than he would otherwise be. “It isn’t as though you planned for anything to come of this, anyway,” he says, hoping he doesn’t sound sulky. “You aren’t interested in a marriage.”

“You are correct. I am not.”

Auguste adjusts Laurent on his hip, trying not to look triumphant.

“That does not mean the Patrans are not valuable to us in other ways,” Father continues. “What would we do if they severed our trade lines through to Kempt? What would we do if they suddenly reversed their neutrality policy, and decided to side with Akielos on the border disputes?”

“They wouldn’t dare,” Auguste says. “Not when they rely so heavily on our ports.”  

“So you think. But that is why we must continue to have discussions like this. Because it is clear that you are far from ready to be King.”

Father doesn’t raise his voice while he says it. That makes it worse. Auguste feels his cheeks and neck go hot, and knows he is blushing, though there is nobody around to witness it. He drops his face to the carpet.

The carpet is an expanse of dizzying damask, bordered by a braided golden fringe. It is similar to the carpet in his own room: the one on which Vale knelt before him earlier, begging his forgiveness for an imagined slight. It brings back everything the wine has so far held at bay.

Auguste’s mouth goes dry. The heat in his face suddenly drops into his belly.

“Yes, Father, I am far from ready,” he says. He keeps his voice calm only for Laurent’s sake, who is now gently snoring. “Because I'm not ready to start treating my friends like mere subjects.”

He expects Father to be flabbergasted, or at least look a little guilty. Instead, Father’s voice- and gaze- are steady as he says, “So Vale spoke to you.”

Auguste raises his chin. “He did.”

“He is your subject, son.  If you won't learn it now, you will learn it later.”

Auguste does not quite manage to filter the disgust from his voice. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“I wish my own father had given me this warning,” Father says. “I wish he had warned me before I became King and promoted my own best friend to the Council. But of course you will have heard about Councillor Gaspard in your history lessons.”

Every hair on Auguste’s body stands on end. Yes, he’s heard of Councillor Gaspard. Gaspard being, of course, the man who plotted to assassinate Father early in his reign.

His motives remain hazy, having died with him on the chopping block. Most people believe Gaspard thought that having Father’s younger brother on the throne instead would be more befitting his ostentatious spending habits, which were beginning to drain the royal coffers. Nevertheless, he was a poor plotter. He tried to involve one too many courtiers in his plan and died as a result.

“I had no idea you were so close to him,” Auguste says. The crackle of the fire nearly overpowers his voice.

Father nods, once, his expression lost in shifting shadows.

Auguste’s stomach starts to hurt. “Vale would never,” he says, gulping back a lump. “Never.”

“I’d have said the same thing of Gaspard, at sixteen.”

“Vale is different. He is loyal to you. He is loyal to _me_. He loves Laurent like his own brother. He would never.”

“Well you have nothing to worry about then, do you?” Father asks. But his face looks terribly gaunt.

Silence again. There is still tension in the air, but it is different. Auguste feels as though he is not standing before the same man he was ten minutes ago. Ever since his conversation with Vale, there’s been a nagging lump of thorns in his chest, begging to be expelled at the first chance. Now those thorns are being absorbed. His chest feels tight.

Unsure how to deal with these new feelings, he drops to a knee.

“I’m sorry, my Lord Father,” Auguste says. “About everything-” _That happened tonight_. But there’s so much more he’s sorry for.

Father only waves a hand. Beneath his ragged red beard, his lips are pursed.

“We can discuss your punishment tomorrow, after you’ve slept off the wine,” he says. “Now take your little brother to bed.”

******

The nursery is not far away: just a short walk down a moonlight-dappled hallway, where the open windows buffet them with an iberis-scented breeze. The breeze won’t smell sweet for long, because late fall is beginning to yield. Auguste can feel the knife-edge of winter on his face.

The chill rouses Laurent. He does not raise his head, but his eyelashes tickle Auguste’s neck as he blinks.

“I didn’t mean to get you in trouble,” he says.

“It’s all right,” Auguste replies. “You were only being honest, just as I taught you. In fact I've already decided our next lesson.”

Laurent yawns. “What will that be?”

“Tact.”

Laurent gives a tiny grunt, but says nothing, which is indicative of how exhausted he really is.

Auguste nods to the guards who swing open the nursery doors, and advances into Laurent’s play room. It’s smaller than Auguste’s presence chamber, but outfitted with more rugs, intended to keep a toddling Prince from bashing his head on hard marble. It's only five long strides to his privy chamber, where Marie is waiting on a little stool next to Laurent’s bed. Auguste excuses her with a dip of his head.

Laurent raises his head as Auguste begins pulling back the sheets. “What are you doing?” he asks drowsily.

Auguste fluffs up the pillows. “Putting you to bed, silly.”

“No! Not yet!” Laurent begins to writhe.

Auguste is forced to turn around and sit on the edge of the bed, or risk dropping a wiggly Laurent. He spreads him across his lap and cradles him, rocking him gently, the way he does when Laurent is having trouble falling asleep. He chuckles at Laurent’s continued struggles. “You can barely keep your eyes open.”

“I want to finish reading you that treatise.”

“The treatise will still be here tomorrow.”

“But we were in the middle of a good part! And you said you'd help me figure out the words! And you said-”

“All right, all right.” Auguste leans over and grabs the treatise off of Laurent’s bedside table. Laurent has kept it in pristine condition: there are no dog-eared corners and no fingerprint smudges, which is remarkable, considering Laurent’s partiality to sweetmeats. “Bet you’ll be asleep before you even get to the next page.”

“Bet not.” Laurent is blinking heavily as Auguste hands him the treatise.

Auguste scoots back until his back rests against the pillows. He arranges Laurent against his chest, so he can feel the vibration of his little brother’s voice as he begins to read. Each page consists of two columns packed with small, scrolled text. Laurent is still a bit slow and stumbles over the pronunciation of some words. It’s hard to say whether this is due to shortfalls in his own abilities, or the fact that his eyelids seem weighted with stones.

“In addition to flowers, the forests host an _ab . . . abun . . ._ ”

“Abundance,” Auguste intercedes.

“Abundance of vines and weeds. Con . . . contrary to the flowers, the vines and weeds are known to have a . . . _nef . . . nefa . . ._ ”

“Nefarious.”

“Nefarious impact on the nature around them.”  Laurent’s eyelids flutter, but he continues to read with careful, plodding precision.

He makes it all the way down one column, and almost all the way down another, before stumbling again.

“The ebolas vine is part of the . . .”

“‘Genus’,” Auguste says. “The word is ‘genus’.”

Laurent does not respond. Auguste looks down, and is not surprised to see that his eyes are closed, long golden lashes resting on plump cheeks. His chest rises and falls in an even rhythm.

He is two words away from the next page.

“Close enough,” Auguste whispers, moving a wisp of blonde hair aside and kissing him on the forehead.

He plucks the treatise from Laurent’s wilting hands and places it back on the bedside table. Then he slides his hands beneath his little brother, lifts him, and maneuvers him underneath the bedsheets. He tucks them as far up under Laurent’s chin as he can manage. Then he stands above him. Stares. Watches as the tiny chest rises and falls, pronouncing a slumber of utter peace.

He wonders if he himself will ever sleep this peacefully again. He wonders if it is even possible, now that he is beginning to understand what life has in store for him. He thinks of Father’s gaunt face before the firelight. He thinks of Vale’s conspiratorial smiles across the Great Hall. He thinks of Princess Sigrid, curtsying on the palace steps, awkwardly maneuvering her way through a doomed evening.

Tonight was only the beginning. Yet, Auguste can’t shake the sensation of having been through a whirlwind.

He kicks off his boots. Then he lays down next to his little brother, throwing an arm over the warm, still body.

Many things in his life will change.

At least this never will.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided I'm definitely going to add at least another chapter to this. There is so much more stuff to explore! I want to add a scene with Hennike, and a scene where Auguste attempts to select a pet, and a scene with all of his lovers . . . ahh, there's just so much. I also think it would be interesting to follow up on that situation with Vale. Maybe Vale is not that great at keeping secrets? The possibilities!
> 
> Alas, I had another fic idea. So I'll probably write that first.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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